Lost
by Chronic Potterphile
Summary: Dean is not ready to lose Sam. Dean will never be ready to lose Sam. Except, maybe it's really out of his control this time. (GEN. Severely sick!Sam, spoilers up to episode 10.22).


**Title:** **Lost**  
 **Rating:** PG 13  
 **Genre:** Gen, hurt/comfort  
 **Characters:** Sam, Dean, Castiel  
 **Word count:** ~3100  
 **Summary:** Dean is not ready to lose Sam. Dean will never be ready to lose Sam. Except, maybe it's really out of his control this time.  
 **Spoilers:** Through to episode 10.22. AU for 10.23, including the promo  
 **Warnings:** Swearing, suicide attempt, depression, severely ill Sam

 **Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognise. I really wish I did, but nope. Kripke is the one who created them.**

 **A/N:** Thanks to my girl, SPNxBookworm, for being a supportive and encouraging sweetheart while I wrote this. This fic isn't betaed, so all mistakes are mine!

This isn't a speculation on the finale. Prompt can be found in the end. Reviews are awesome. :)

 **Lost**

It's early June when Dean finds that there's something weird about the salami sandwich that he's chowing on. It's Sam's turn to cook today, and Sam's not been sticking to 'healthy', exactly, and Dean suspects it's a way to make-up for… everything (Charlie). He's told Sam—God, he's _confirmed_ with Sam that it was the Mark talking when he'd blamed Sam for it all, but Sam's yet to forgive himself.

Dean cringes. Maybe Sam wouldn't have blamed himself if Dean hadn't instigated all that blame. Maybe Sam wouldn't have blamed himself if Dean hadn't actually said this stuff in the past too.

He puts down his sandwich at the very thought of this; his appetite vanishing. No. No, he won't think of this right now. He looks at his bare forearm; devoid of the Mark, and he thinks it's been an eternity since he hasn't seen red, puckered skin up there. This is a relief. This is such a relief.

He wishes the nagging feeling of dread in his gut would just go away.

+

By mid-June, Dean's pretty sure that the salami sandwich wasn't an honest mistake (Sam had cooked the salami in butter. Dean loves butter, but he likes his lunch meat right out of the packaging because it's best that way). Sam makes many more mistakes around the kitchen. Sugar instead of salt, tea leaves instead of coffee powder, cinnamon instead of pepper, yogurt instead of cheese, and Dean just buys him a darned cookbook because Sam keeps saying that he forgets some of the recipe while cooking. Dean doesn't understand how you can add sugar instead of salt to mac and cheese and say that you forgot, but Sam's puppy-dog eyes play a powerful role in making him sigh and just accept that his brother isn't lying.

Plus, Sam prides himself on that excess brain matter up there. Why would he accept to forgetting this shit, unless he were telling the truth?

So Dean gets him a cookbook with all the basic stuff, and then one with fancy stuff, and then to make up for Sam's cooking disasters, there are the days when Dean cooks instead. Taking turns is a good thing, that way. They always have a decent meal every other day, at least. It's not as if Sam's ever been a good cook, even before this weird streak of forgetting hit him.

Although by this time, Dean's just hoping that Sam's forgiven himself.

+

In July, Sam faints.

He and Dean are packing up their duffels to head out on a new hunt—ghouls, probably, from the looks of it, and Dean examines his unloaded shotgun. "Huh. Need some shells for this one."

"I'll get them," Sam offers. He's just starting to walk away, but then he stops. He turns around. "Uh… what did I just say I'd do?"

"Shotgun shells," Dean tells him, raising an eyebrow. "You okay?"

"Y-Yeah, I just…" Sam's eyes look bleary for a moment, just a moment, and it's gone. "I'll get them," he repeats, and resumes walking back to the room where they keep the ammo. Dean can hear his shuffling footsteps (when did he start walking like that?) and he's checking the safety on his Beretta when he hears a loud crash.

"Sam?!" Dean starts, dropping the guns and running to the war room, only to find his brother slumped to the floor in a dead faint, right next to their map table. "Shit," Dean mutters, " _shitshitshit_." He turns his brother around and starts patting him down to see if he's hurt, or if he was hurt from their last hunt and just didn't tell Dean. He can't see or feel anything though, except that Sam's sweating profusely and still unconscious.

Dean takes his pulse to feel it fluttering and weak under his fingers. "Sam?"

Sam doesn't respond, doesn't wake up, and Dean pulls of his shoes and his socks, pushes himself to the floor so he's cross legged, and hefts Sam's feet to his lap, elevating them. "All right," he says, "that's enough, delicate darling. You can wake up now."

Sam doesn't obey him.

Actually, Sam doesn't obey Dean for several minutes, and then, after Dean's had around a thousand heart attacks, he slowly opens his eyes, smacking his pale, dry lips as he groans. "D'n?"

"Hey." Dean puts the fifty-ton legs back on the floor as he gets on all fours and crawls up to his little brother. Sam's sweating and his eyes are glassy and he looks very confused. Dean puts a hand on his head, on his damp hair. "What's wrong?"

"D-Dunno," Sam whispers hoarsely. "Dizzy."

"Yeah, I guessed as much."

"Wha' happened?"

Dean snorts. "You fainted, Princess."

"P-Passed out."

"Fainted."

"Scr'w you."

Dean scrunches his face. "You're pretty and all but I don't like you like _that_."

"Ew."

"You think I'm _ew_?"

Sam doesn't reply to that. He just smacks his lips again. "C'n… need wat'r."

"Oh yeah," Dean whispers, starting to get up. "I'll get you water, and then you're sleeping. You hurting anywhere?"

"The gh-ghouls."

"Fuck the ghouls, you hurting?" Dean repeats.

"N-No… th-think 'm j'st t-tired."

"Fine, then you stay here, I'll get you some chilled water, and then we'll get you to your room so you can sleep and get your rest. What say?"

Sam smiles wanly at him, pale face brightening, if just a little. "M-Mom."

"You're screwed up," Dean sighs, before heading to the kitchen. He tries to ignore the nagging feeling in his gut again, warning him something is really wrong, but he can't. He decides to do it anyway. He and Sam both have their bad days. Maybe their lives are just catching up with them right now.

Well… maybe.

+

"You find anything?" Dean peeks over the mound of earth, flashlight and shotgun in hand, as Sam huffs, and pushes out another pile of mud.

"No," Sam mutters.

"We've been here half-an-hour, and the fugly still hasn't attacked us," Dean muses. He leans over again, and watches Sam halt to wipe away beads of sweat from his forehead. August in Florida isn't the best, really.

Sam rubs his forehead against his sleeve and holds the shovel unsurely, staring at the earth before him. Dean cocks his shotgun and raises an eyebrow. "You wanna hurry that up, Sammy?"

Sam nods, and in the beam from the flashlight, Dean can see that he looks pale. He frowns. "You okay?"

"I…" Sam begins, and then swallows. "I – yeah – but…"

"But?"

Sam squints up at the sky. "When did it become dark?"

Dean frowns. "You kidding me? Come on, man, don't stall. This isn't funny. The longer you dig, the more likely we are to get tossed about by the ghost."

"Sorry." Sam pulls up the shovel again and blinks at it. He moves it between one hand and the other, and Dean sucks in a breath.

"Sam!"

"D-Dean…"

His brother's voice sounds small and scared, and Dean bends over to see Sam's distressed face looking at his. "What?" he asks, frustrated.

"I d-don't remember how to do this."

"Do what?"

"W-When did it become dark?"

"What?" Dean crouches over the edge and stares at Sam. "Dude, what are you talking about, and what can't you remember?"

"I c-can't remember how to – h-how to dig."

Dean rolls his eyes. "You and your fucking excuses, dude."

"I'm not—"

"Come up here and let me handle that."

"D-Dean… I…" Sam looks up at him, nine kinds of distressed and confused. "Sorry," he whispers.

Dean's heart sinks to his stomach. "It's okay, man. Don't worry about it. You should have just told me you weren't up for this." He takes the shovel and watches Sam guard them as he unearths the coffin, ignoring his gut again.

+

In September, Sam goes for a supply run, and takes five hours to get back. Dean flips his shit and takes the Impala to find his brother, only to see him sitting on a bench, staring about aimlessly in the park outside the supermarket. Anger bubbles in him because seriously? Sam decided to sit and stare at the nature, and he couldn't even fucking _call_?

"Sam!"

He is walking, trotting along the path to where Sam is, to the fucking bench where Sam's sitting, and his brother looks up at him, face sweaty, eyes shifty, and hands visibly trembling. He stands up from his place. "D-Dean?"

"What the fuck, man?" Dean bounds over and takes Sam's collar in his hands, feeling his brother's chin scruff against his hands. "What the fuck?!"

"I-I—"

"What are you doing here?"

"I g-got lost… I—"

"BULL!"

"D-Dean… I – please listen. P-Please."

"What? What is it you wanna say?" Dean asks him. "You know how it's been these last few months. After Charlie, and the Stynes and the fucking Mark, and—"

"I didn't know… Id-didn't know how to use t-the—" Sam fumbles with his words for a moment. "The…"

"The what?" Dean asks him.

Sam extracts his cell phone from his pocket. His face scrunches up. "Dean… please, please b-believe me."

"After you lied that whole time?"

It's a low blow and Dean's forgiven Sam and told him just as much but he's so pissed… so fucking _pissed_.

Sam takes in a shuddering breath, bringing his hands over Dean's and slowly extracting himself from Dean's grasp. His palms are clammy and he's pale, and he wavers a little when he stands back. When Dean looks back at him, glowering, angry, he takes a sharp breath. Sam's eyes are tearing up.

"Sam?" he asks hoarsely. "Sammy, I'm—

"I d-don't understand," Sam replies, his voice trembling the same way that his whole body seems to be. "I d-don't know what's happening to m-me."

Dean takes the grocery bags from Sam's hands, and leads him over to the Impala. He drives his brother straight to the ER of the nearest hospital.

+

Sam is diagnosed with vascular dementia. The doctor attributes it to repeated strokes, but Sam's BP and blood sugar levels are normal, so he isn't sure of what's doing it. Also, Sam's age is way off for this, because it happens to old people.

Sam's taken several hits to the head, though; both he and Dean have, so the doc says that it's probably from haemorrhage. And really, he's not sure about that either. All the doc is sure of, is that Sam shouldn't have this disease at all, and that it is progressing way to soon. He is sorry when he says that Sam will get worse (and die). That Sam will forget everything, and will lose control of his body. That eventually, Sam won't be Sam anymore.

Dean brings Sam home, nausea boiling in the pit of his stomach, and Sam gets irritated when Dean tries to baby him. The doctor said there'd be irritability and depression and personality changes, and Dean doesn't want to think about it. Doesn't want to think that maybe Sam's irritated because of… _that_. He calls Cas afterwards; once Sam is asleep.

"Cas," he whispers into the phone, as he collects several fat and heavy books to help his brother. "What do you know about the spell that got my Mark off?"

 _"_ _It was very powerful,"_ Cas says from the other side. _"It should have affected Sam, but it didn't, and I'm glad. Why do you ask?"_

"B-Because…" Dean runs a tongue on his lip, and collects himself, "Cas, I th-think it got to him."

There is a beat of silence.

 _"_ _I'm coming over."_

+

Cas can't cure Sam. He tries and he tries and he can't cure Sam. So he joins Dean at the bunker to reverse the effects of this new curse.

Like it's a curse, and not a consequence.

Like it can actually be cured.

+

It's late at night in October, and Dean's making his way to the bathroom. He finds it locked, and leans against the wall outside to let his brother finish his business. He's crossed his arms and is tapping his feet, when he hears it, though. The sobs. They're from Sam.

"Sammy?" Dean's heart is thumping against his chest when he puts his palm on the door. "Sam?"

The sobs stop, but Sam doesn't emerge. Dean waits outside; right outside for an hour, but Sam doesn't come out, and Dean finally decides to let his little brother have his privacy, as he starts walking away. Maybe Sam will say something tomorrow. Maybe this is one of…

No, it's not one of Sam's _spells_. Dean won't think of it that way.

While going back, though, a glance at Sam's room makes Dean stop. He holds his breath and enters, only to be greeted by the sight of Sam's bed. Sam's bed, with a large, wet circle in the centre.

Dean doesn't sleep for the rest of the night.

+

It's still October, when Sam takes a gun, puts it against his temple, and pulls the trigger.

Thankfully, he forgets to load it, and then forgets where the bullets are kept. Dean finds him searching for them in the kitchen, in the fridge, and freaks out at the gun in his brother's hand. "Sam?!"

Sam turns around, eyes bloodshot, and Dean swallows. "Put the gun down."

"Not—" Sam shakes his head. "N-Not l-l… lame."

He means _loaded_. Sam forgets words too these days. Except, Dean never needed a Sammy dictionary.

"What are you looking for?" he asks.

Sam's face breaks, bit-by-bit, as he shakes his head, and Dean realises what he was looking for. He doesn't say anything. He just moves ahead and takes the gun from his brother, and takes him back to his room. Sam can't really walk properly so he wobbles under Dean's grasp, shuffling and swaying, and Dean tells him to go to sleep, and locks up all the ammo.

+

In November, Sam finds the small handgun that they always keep the Impala. Dean fortunately chooses that moment to decide that he wants to clean his car. This time when he catches Sam with the gun, Dean isn't calm.

"Why?" He asks Sam harshly, fisting his brother's shirt. "Why are you doing this?!"

Sam's eyes are tearing up again. "D-Don'… I'm – 'm mmm… b-b…boneless."

 _Don't wanna be a burden._

Dean pushes Sam—literally _pushes_ him to his room, and locks the door from the outside. Then he slides down the wall outside the room and sobs into his hands. He sobs until Cas finds him that way, tries to shush him with all his angelic empathy, and helps him back to his own bed, promising to keep an eye on Sam for the night.

+

Dean and Cas start taking turns sleeping outside Sam's room every night. Sam gets confused by the darkness; gets confused by Dean and Cas sometimes, especially when he thinks he's in Hell with Lucifer. Sometimes he laughs without reason, and sometimes, he sobs as though his heart is breaking, without knowing why.

Dean helps Sam through it, and Cas tries to be as comforting as Dean. They both try; because, right now, that's all they can do.

That's all anyone can do.

+

In December, Sam passes out in the kitchen and bumps his forehead on a sharp corner while going down. He needs three stitches for it and when Dean tries to sew him up, he gets scared, and starts scrabbling at Dean's hands, trying to run away. It takes a few moments for Dean to realise that Sam doesn't recognise him.

After that, Dean and Cas are just strangers to Sam.

+

In mid-December, Sam has a seizure. That's just the first one of the horrendous other seizures that follow. He bites his tongue most of the time, and sometimes, the choking sounds he makes scare Dean. When Sam has a seizure, it sounds like he's dying.

Dean wonders if Sam was right—if death will be preferable to this, and then convinces himself that he's wrong.

Sammy can't die. He's all Dean's got. Dean isn't ready to give up his world yet.

+

In January, Sam stops being able to walk. He is on the floor, having fallen again when Dean tries to haul him up and he fights, struggles against him, but Dean somehow drags him to his room; to his bed. Sam tears up when Dean gets him to lie down, and Dean can't figure out what the reason is, because Sam won't speak anymore.

He and Cas start caring for Sam at his bedside; taking him out, flipping him over and talking to him even though he doesn't know who they are. He yells at them in gibberish sometimes, and those are the happiest moments in Dean's life.

Sam doesn't eat much of anything. Sometimes he spits it all at Dean's face. Sometimes, Dean has to puree his food because he'll not chew. Sometimes, Sam will eat, and then throw it all up and ask to die. At night, Sam is always more confused. He has nightmares and he hallucinates Lucifer and Jess and Sarah and Mom and Ruby and Madison and Charlie. And all Dean will find after that is an inconsolable, sobbing mess of a brother that he won't be able to help, no matter what he does.

Sam wets his bed sometimes. Dean knows he should get him diapers, but that would mean taking up the responsibility of changing Sam, and Dean wants his brother's dignity intact. At least the last of it. So he just silently takes up all the laundry duty at the bunker.

One day in April, when Cas is out for the supply run, Dean sits next to his sleeping brother and thinks of everything—of all the moments he's shared with his brother. He thinks of Heaven and Hell and the angels and Cain, and he thinks of Sam, just _Sam_.

There are so many things he shouldn't have said. So many things he wants to change. And mostly, he just wants Sam back.

Life was never kind to them, though.

He smiles at his brother, running his hands fondly through Sam's hair, carding his fingers through them, and he wishes Sam would get better. He wishes Sam would just wake up and start remembering and talking and walking, and not seizing. He wishes for a fucking miracle, and for the world to be a little merciful on his brother, for life to be a little kinder.

He doesn't realise he's crying; doesn't feel the tears falling out of his eyes and slipping down his cheeks until a few fall on Sam's forehead, and he has to pull away to wipe them off. A hand comes to grasp on his wrist when he tries to do that, and it's so solid that he starts, and then he's seeing the most wonderful sight—something that he never thought he'd witness again, because Sam's holding on to Dean's wrist, and on his face is a smile.

"J…Jerk," Sam croaks, eyes filling up, and Dean lets more tears fall, leaning forward to pull his brother up and hold him in a hug, thanking the universe for the tiny display of mercy, however small. He thanks the unknown entity for fulfilling his wish, however temporary.

Dean cradles Sam's neck, unwilling to let go and taking in all of his brother, face buried in Sam's hair as he holds him tight. "Bitch," he whispers to Sam, chuckling through the tears. "Bitch."

 **The End**

 _Written for the following prompt at_ ** _ohsam_** _:_

 _Sam is acting weird_ ** _._** _Forgetting things, occasional bouts of aphasia or spouting gibberish, dizziness, and it's very quickly getting worse. All unexplained occurrences. Until Dean insists he see a doctor and Sam is diagnosed as having rapid early onset dementia, already very advanced and likely caused by the numerous head injuries he's had over the years. Or is it? Dean won't accept that Sam, the brother he's protected all his life, might soon be lost to him. Dean looks for a miracle cure and even thinks a witch's spell might be behind it. All the while, Sam is aware he's losing chunks of himself and he's scared, tortured by the knowledge that he will lose his memories, his intelligence, and become an empty shell, a burden to Dean for the rest of his life. He considers/tries suicide maybe._ __

 _Whether Dean is successful in finding a cure or not is up to the writer, but just no miracle angel cures. This is kind of a dual hurt/comfort story._


End file.
